


oscillation (and variations on a familiar pattern)

by fishycorvid



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Intrigue, Thinkpiece, also.... not falling in love, but it's all really light, i don't really know how to describe this it's just messy and weird, this is actually just a fic about canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 12:44:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14934503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishycorvid/pseuds/fishycorvid
Summary: There are so many ways for it to happen, just as there are so many ways to go wrong.The fact is simply this: there must be something in the water at the Nine-Nine. Something that makes all of them more volatile, more prone to explosion, to action, something that makes them laugh more freely, breathe more deeply, feel more intensely, live with more drama and vitality.





	oscillation (and variations on a familiar pattern)

**Author's Note:**

> this is canon divergence to the MAX. thank u @nevermindthewind for helping me edit this. i don't know what else to tell you guys just enjoy!!

There are so many ways for it to happen, just as there are so many ways to go wrong.

* * *

The fact is simply this: there must be something in the water at the Nine-Nine. Something that makes all of them more volatile, more prone to explosion, to action, something that makes them laugh more freely, breathe more deeply, feel more intensely, live with more drama and vitality.

* * *

There are days when they feel it more intensely than others. Jake will be interrogating a perp, sometimes, gesturing wildly with a huge, cocky grin splitting his face wide open, footsteps quick and almost purposeful, and then halfway through a sentence he’ll turn to the mirror and even though he can’t see through it, he’ll smile wider and his eyes will flash and he can’t possibly be meeting Amy’s gaze, she can feel him watching, and it’s almost like a punch in the gut. Or Amy will be chasing some small-time robber down on the streets, and she’ll tackle and cuff him, and then she’ll grin up at Jake, who’s only just catching up, and it will take everything not to stride forward and kiss her, long and hard. Or they’ll be leaned up against a squad car, sipping their morning coffee, and talking idly, and their eyes will meet and their conversation will stop in its tracks and they’ll watch each other for a moment until one of them will stumble through the silence with a comment that doesn’t quite fit and the other will laugh uncomfortably and they’ll try to move on and they’ll succeed but they won’t quite forget.

* * *

Sometimes, a curly-haired hoodie-wearing man will bump into a dark-eyed smartly-dressed woman at the coffee shop, and they’ll apologize at the same time and laugh. She will tell him that she’s starting her new job today, and he’ll laugh again, loud and uninhibited, when she says where she’s going to work. She will ask why, and he will tell her, and they will shake hands and walk into the precinct side by side. Later that day, he will ask her out, and even though it’s unprofessional, even though it might endanger her job if it goes poorly, she will blush and say yes.

(Mostly, it does not go poorly.)

* * *

Sometimes, it’s just after the night they make good on their deal, their bet, their game, their _excuse_ , really, to tease each other and laugh and compete and get a little too in each other’s faces, a little too close to each other’s bodies. It doesn’t matter how it happens on that night, because it always goes the same way: Jake’s back against the wall, pulling Amy closer, both of their lips hot and insistent and almost desperate, the roughness of a brick wall, feet planted on hard asphalt, tension that doesn’t break and doesn’t break and doesn’t break, not even later, when they’re back at Jake’s messy apartment of Amy’s clean one, sprawled out on their bed (always rumpled, clothing scattered carelessly over the floor and through the hallway, no matter whose bedroom it is), breathing hard, eyes closed. His hand finds hers across the canyon between them, and she moves her hand away as soon as he falls asleep. Her eyes are open, now, and as she listens to his now-steady breathing, she stares at her off-white ceiling and tries to forget the heat of his mouth on hers.

* * *

Sometimes, they kiss while undercover. Later, they kiss in an evidence locker, intimate and crammed close together, and when they pull away, there is something like wonder in their eyes.

(Almost always, the wonder stays.)

* * *

Sometimes, Amy swaggers up to him in a bar-- it doesn’t matter which one, really, but almost always it’s Shaw’s, after a hard week of grueling and violent work-- and almost always she’s five drinks in (though sometimes, unluckily or maybe luckily for Jake, it’s four). She props herself up on the table with one hand and leans over him, grinning like she’s got a secret, and Jake tilts his head at her inquisitively, concealing a smile himself.

“You like me,” she says, pointing a drunken finger at him, and smiles big and wide and triumphant, like she just cracked a case before he did.

Jake shakes his head, stomach sinking; he’s thrown and trying to hide it, and he looks back up at her as a forced chuckle making its way out of his lips. “You’re drunk, Santiago,” he replies, arms crossed, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Don’t lie to me, Peralta,” Amy drawls, “I’m a detective,” and her other hand lands on his shoulder and then crawls over to the back of his neck, and that goddamned grin still won’t slide off her face. Her fingers slide through the hair at the base of his scalp, maybe unconsciously, maybe intentionally. Either way, Jake always jolts, lips parting infinitesimally, and Amy laughs loudly but not unkindly.

“We’ve already established that I’m the better detective here. I’m also not, you know, drunk off my ass right now,” he mutters, very clearly dodging the opening statement to this whole mess, and the other detective just laughs again and leans down so she’s face to face with him. She almost loses her balance and her hands fly to both of his shoulders, which makes her just burst out laughing all over again, the noise rising out of her lungs on its own, and Jake can’t help but laugh back.

“C’mon, Jake,” Amy smirks, breath on his lips, and he freezes up all over again, because this is Amy Santiago, right in front of him, all drunkenness and too-hot hands and open-mouthed smiles with her tongue peeking out from between her teeth. “You know you like me. And also, I like you,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

Jake inhales, sharp and deep and straight to his heart, and then lets it back out. “You’re _drunk,_ Santiago,” he tells her, voice low and jaw tightening, voice more firm this time, but she rolls her eyes petulantly and closes the already minute gap between their lips, kissing him like she’s got something to prove to him, or maybe just to herself. He can taste the alcohol on her tongue, and her hand comes up to grip his jaw and tilt his head up towards hers for a better angle. The next thing he’s aware of, his hands are tangled up in her hair and she’s gasping against his lips and her other hand has slid across to hold his collar tightly, tugging him closer.

“God,” she mumbles against his lips as she pulls away. She doesn’t go far, just enough for Jake to see the lucidity flashing its way back into her eyes. Amy’s fingers loosen on his collar and jaw, and then she straightens up and combs a hand through her hair nervously.

“So--” Jake starts, but he can see the way her fingers clench and her shoulders tense, so he relents, instead exhaling slowly and finishing off his whiskey.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Amy striding away quickly, breathing hard. He orders another drink.

(Sometimes, they talk about it. Sometimes, they figure it out, how to make this work, how to make this drunken kiss change them in a way that doesn’t tear them apart, how to not bolt after being vulnerable. Mostly, though, they don’t.)

* * *

Sometimes, it’s Jake who’s the drunk one. He calls her late at night and asks if he can come over, and sometimes she says no, but mostly she says yes.

The air is cold on his way over (sometimes it’s humid and hot; sometimes it’s raining; mostly, though it’s just chilly)-- an autumn’s night in the city. Jake walks, just to feel the solidity of the earth under his feet, to see the cars rushing past him, to close his eyes and sense the streetlights glowing down on his face. It sobers him a little, but not much. Miraculously, he isn’t hit by a car. Nothing goes wrong. No matter what he does, this doesn’t change. Amy buzzes him up (sometimes she turns him away in a sudden moment of logic and clarity, but mostly, she doesn’t do that) and lets him in when he knocks on her door.

“Come on in,” she tells him, only a little nervous, and he just grins at her, mouth open and eyes bright and dancing as he brushes past her. Amy could be imagining it, but she thinks his hand lingers warm and hesitant on her elbow on the way past, a little longer than usual.

Jake flops down on her couch and clumsily waves a hand to beckon her over. She laughs a little at his dopey smile when she gingerly sits down next to him.

“What’s up?” she asks after a moment spent in a silence that is only partially awkward.

He shrugs, and his eyes don’t leave her face; the only thing that is steady about him now is his gaze. “I don’t know. I’m…” He gestures vaguely, spinning his hand and wiggling his fingers. “Here,” and Jake grins proudly like he’s given an intelligent, complete answer, and God help her, Amy feels warmth go through her right down to the marrow of her bones.

Music is playing somewhere in the distance. Probably one of her neighbors-- he plays the piano at odd hours of the night. Normally, she would be annoyed; she’s march over and demand that he stop, but he’s good. Sometimes, he even sings along, soft and melodic.

Amy looks over at Jake with searching, dark brown eyes. He looks back at her, still and calm, and she starts when his fingers dance over hers but does not pull them away.

“Jake…” she starts, but the words die on her tongue. His lips curl up at the edges, a bit, and she can see the dullness of exhaustion in the lines of his face, but his light brown eyes are open and honest and bright.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles, and then blinks at her slowly. Jake’s head tilts a little to the side, and Amy knows instinctively that while he’s waiting for her to talk, he’s also listening to the smooth melody of the piano. She can feel the flush and warmth rising to her cheeks, but she can’t look away from him, with his slightly parted lips and skin golden-tinted in the light of her old-fashioned lamp and gentle smile, resting on his lips like words that he doesn’t know how to speak.

As one, like symmetrical but somehow different images, they lean towards each other, slow, slow. His hand finds the bit of skin exposed on her waist from where her just-a-little-too-small t-shirt is riding up, and she rests her fingers on his arm, light enough that Jake thinks maybe he’s just imagining it.

Their lips meet, tender and only a bit afraid. Amy pulls back after only a few seconds, eyes sweeping over his face for regret or hesitance, but they find only incredulity and maybe even love. He pulls her back in.

(The far-away song fades to its end.)

* * *

Mostly, it’s something dumb. It’s a game of Truth or Dare with their colleagues where they both think _fuck it_ at the same time. It’s Jake slipping up and calling her _babe_ except they’re not undercover this time. It’s Amy calling him dumb and then saying “but I love you for it,” and Jake freezing in his steps and looking at her with wide, hopeful eyes. It’s either of them not being able to stand it anymore, and they look into each other’s eyes, and then their lips are pressed together without a moment to think better of it or even breathe, and their fingers are tangled together and their hearts are beating for maybe the first time in years but the fact of the idiotic matter is that they’re making out in the middle of a fucking _police precinct._

If they’re lucky, it’s something meaningful. It’s Jake asking her out on a date, romantic stylez, voice quiet, after a hard case. It’s Amy reaching for his hand when they hear that their captain is in danger. It’s Jake trying to teach her how to cook in his apartment’s tiny, cramped kitchen, and they talk about it while eating half-burnt cookies, perched on his counter, and at the end of it all, he kisses the sugar off her lips, soft and gentle and hopeful. It’s a perp stabbing Jake in the arm and something inside Amy snaps painfully. It’s Amy lying sprawled on the asphalt, trying to breathe through the pain of a gunshot wound to the hip, and Jake kneeling over her, gripping her hand tight enough to hurt.

(Let’s be honest, though: this is Jake and Amy. When they finally crack, which is almost always, it’s very rarely for any _reasonable_ reason.)

* * *

Sometimes, it doesn’t work. Mostly, it does.

Sometimes, it ends in a fight about Jake’s immaturity or impulsivity or jealousy or self-esteem or penchant for being annoying, or Amy’s ambition or quickness to anger or perfectionism or judgment or biting harsh intelligence. Sometimes, it ends across that canyon between their hands. Sometimes, they don’t talk about it, and Amy becomes a sergeant, or Jake gets transferred to another precinct. Sometimes, he gets shot in Florida; sometimes, he overdoses or drinks too much undercover and he’s found in a gutter, face pale and eyes closed. Sometimes, she gets killed in a standoff with a perp. Sometimes, they grow apart and the only thing stretched between them is silence. Sometimes, they stubbornly refuse to change together, to grow together. Sometimes, Amy doesn’t call her mother; sometimes, Jake doesn’t buy the mattress.

Sometimes, they don’t do anything at all. They stare at each other from across the vast chasm of their desks, hands fidgeting, eyes flickering away whenever the other one looks. They avoid it-- they dance around the topic in a waltz that even Amy knows the steps to, now, and they ignore Charles’ cajoling and Gina’s teasing and Rosa’s suggestive silence and Terry’s metaphorical speeches and Holt’s tired, all-seeing eyes. They ignore the way their hearts clench when the other gets hurt, ignore the disproportionate joy they feel when one of them succeeds, ignore the way their skin crackles when their fingers touch. They ignore the tectonic shifts, and thus never truly feel the full force of the earthquake raging just beneath their feet.

* * *

Mostly, though, they do.

Mostly, Jake’s hand finds hers on top of the wrinkled sheets. Mostly, Amy curls their fingers together and closes her eyes and smiles. Mostly, their first kisses are not their last; they are the prologue to a lifetime of hands being held and lips pressed together soft and loving or deep and insinuating and bare skin against bare skin and arms wrapped around each other. Mostly, she falls asleep on his chest the nights they spend in their soon shared apartment, and in his sleep, he holds her tighter. Mostly, he makes her dinner in her slightly bigger kitchen or they order in, and either way they curl together on the couch and watch old cop movies or bad rom-coms or overdramatic TV shows. Mostly, when they kiss, it’s when they’re sober (and always because they want to, always because they are unafraid). Mostly, when they talk, there’s no trepidation, no tension, no sense of waiting; everything they could need or be waiting for is there right in front of them and always has been. Mostly, they lay in bed, tangled up in each other (sometimes, they are slipknots. Mostly, they are not), and Jake contemplates the slope of her nose, the curve of her cheek, the way she will murmur _I love you_ against the skin of his collarbone in her sleep, and Amy contemplates the comforting thunder of his heartbeat, the skim of his fingers over her knuckles, the ghosting of his lips over his hairline, the rhythmic back-and-forth motion of his hand sweeping over her bare waist. Mostly, they wonder what went wrong enough and really what went right enough to put them here, here, _here._

There are so many ways things like these can happen. Sometimes, it lasts. Sometimes, it doesn’t.

Always, it’s worth it.

Always, there’s love.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading thru this messy bitch of a fanfiction.......... please tell me what you think! thanks again! i hope you liked it


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